


sorry about the

by coricomile



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2009 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Two more days. Geno's mouth smearing across Sid's, wet with expensive whiskey and ashen from a cigar and wide and messy.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	sorry about the

Geno fell into Sid's bed so easily, eyes glassy and smile wide and hands clumsy and loose with beer and good will and hope. Two more days and they'd play game seven. Two more days and they'd know if they had really, truly won. If they were worthy. If they could come back from last year's failure. 

Two more days, but Geno was here now, his body naked except for his tiny blue swim trunks. Two more days, but Geno reached for Sid with big hands and his lower lip puffed out in an exaggerated pout, the last two awake at the party. Mario's house echoed around them, silent and cold and too damn big for the number of people inside. 

Two more days. Geno's mouth smearing across Sid's, wet with expensive whiskey and ashen from a cigar and wide and messy. They didn't party. The Pens weren't that kind of team, usually. The older guys had kids and the younger guys bled out all their energy onto the ice and into pretty girls at bars, but Mario had insisted. Just once. Just a nice barbeque with the players and his heated pool and booze left unattended in styrofoam coolers for the guys that weren't quite twenty-one to dip into. 

Forty-eight hours. Geno laughing as he dragged Sid up two flights of stairs, staggering on skinny ankles and too many shitty Molsons. Geno's broad palms spread over Sidney's goosepimpled ribs, thumbs pressing down on the hard buds of Sid's nipples, like he could stem the flow of blood if he tried hard enough. 

Geno didn't kiss him. Sid's mouth ached for it, stayed open as Geno tore away the block of Sid's swim trunks, trapping his thighs between cotton and stitched layers. Geno didn't kiss him, but Sid sank his teeth into the bend of Geno's shoulder and left his mark. Bruises faded. Slices from flesh faded. Sid had a handful of scars from skate blades and fists and slips littered over his entire body, a catalogue of time spent sacrificing skin for peace of mind. He wanted to bite. He wanted to rip and tear. He wanted to leave something permanently written into the dark olive of Geno's skin, more important than a ring, than a Cup, than anything else. He wanted to be a scar to be picked over for decades. Irreversible. Impossible to ignore. 

Sid bucked under the first touch of Geno's big hand against his cock. Geno had delicate joints. Slender wrists and slender ankles and skinny calves that never grew, no matter how many exercises he did under the eyes of the trainers. It didn't matter. His hands were strong, a lifetime of solid grip around a hockey stick, a lifetime of being too good, all narrowed down into driving Sid out of his mind, thrashing on the sheets of a borrowed bed. 

"Geno-" Sid squeezed his eyes closed as Geno breached the safety zone between cotton and polyester and skin. Geno had the same rough places as his own hands. Blisters between second and third knuckles that turned hard and chapped, rough spots on the heel of the palm from fiberglass that cut through the pads and fabric of gloves. A scar on the pale fish belly white skin of his thigh, silver and translucent and raised under Sid's fingertips, surgery with bad recovery time written into Geno's skin permanently. 

"Sid." A plea. A cry. A familiar syllable distorted with a foreign accent, slurred with hops and violence. Sid closed his hand over the hot, heavy weight of Geno's cock and pulled him off the same way he did himself. Fast. Efficient. Ends meet the needs. If he let himself linger, Sid would have been thralled like a peasant under a witch. He would have bent himself over and begged for Geno to take what he needed. He would have split himself open dry and bleeding and made lame for the last game if Geno asked him to. 

_I love you_ , Sid thought, his hands stuck on the warm, endless sprawl of Geno's back, over the hot, hard press of him in Sid's palm. _I love you, I love you, Iloveyou_. 

Geno rutted up into Sid's hand, a whine building and building and building in his throat until it took over the whole room, so loud that Sid worried Mario would come to investigate. He squeezed his fingers around the head of Geno's cock, ground the heel of his palm into the root of it in time with the shuddering, uneven breaths sighed across his throat. Geno shoved them both over, caging Sid under the bulk of his body, and Sid couldn't help the twitch of his knee into the back of Geno's thigh or the way his own cock jumped against the press of Geno's hip.

Sid jerked under the heavy weight of Gneo laying over him, his thighs and abs and glutes drawing so tight he could have cut concrete blocks with the tension. Geno barely had to touch him- just the drag of a rough hand, the squeeze of big, square fingers- and Sid shot off his orgasm over their stomachs and his own chest. It would have been embarrassing if Geno's eyes hadn't gone so dark they'd turned damn near black. 

"Come on, G," Sid said with the last grasping bits of air he had left. "Come on." He couldn't move his arm, trapped between their chests, but his wrist worked just fine and Geno's hips snapped forward in sharp staccato beats. Geno's climax took them both by surprise. Sid kept working his wrist as best he could, stuck the top of his thumb under the fold of Geno's foreskin and felt the way his cockhead pulsed as he came over Sid's stomach. 

Geno didn't kiss him. 

Two more days. They had a game to play. A Cup to win. Geno smiled, his crooked teeth and crushed crinkled eyes on display, and Sid's chest felt hollow and so, so empty. Geno bumped his forehead against Sid's, knocked their fists together before he gathered his shorts from the floor, before he armored up again. Sid dragged his own boxers on, the feel of cotton too rough on his sensitive skin, and walked Geno to the door. 

He leaned into it, pressed his body into the dark that loomed between the night outside and the warmth of the single bulb light in Mario's mud room. He tilted his head up to meet Geno's eyes and found brother instead of lover. 

"We win," Geno said. He smiled wide, his fat lower lip stretching into a pink line and his glassy eyes skipping over Sid's face. He knocked his knuckles against Sid's bare shoulder and wobbled off into the night, his taxi already waiting down the drive.

Game seven. A chance to throw himself into hockey the way he never had before, to bleed and sweat and cry for the singular trophy that could define his entire life. Sid closed his eyes as the door locked behind Geno's back and thought of silver in his hands. It had to matter. He could only sacrifice so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just gotta write a sad. Also, the prose is purple and I feel shame for it.


End file.
